


And Lead Them Home Again

by weathervaanes



Series: where our heads lived and were [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Family Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It doesn't make the pain and the uncertainty any less, it doesn't make any of you feel safe that you won't have him again, and it doesn't make my daughter whole again. So I don't frigging care why the hell he wasn't here, Allison, I care that he wasn't.”</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Derek's triumphant return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Lead Them Home Again

“LAURA!”

“YEAH!”

“LAURA, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS MESS?”

“OH.”  There's a small pause. “I'M NOT DONE WITH IT YET!”

Stiles takes a deep breath and ducks into the living room.  “You've been watching TV for half an hour, what do you mean you're not done with it yet?”

Laura's eyes are still glued to the TV.  “M'gonna paint more when this is done.”

He resists the urge to push his face into his hands.  “Laura, please—the kitchen is a total disaster, I haven’t cleared out the office yet, and I have four loads of laundry to finish by tomorrow; can you please either go back to your paints or clean them up?”

“Not yet,” she insists, still watching desperately thin girls with terrible fashion choices do awkward dance moves across TV sets.  “In a minute.”

“Laura,” he says more firmly.  “Now.”

Laura huffs and finally looks up at him.  “It's almost finished.”

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes in deep again, asking whatever is out there to give him patience. “Laura, I'm not going to tell you again. Turn off the TV and go pick up your paints. _And_ go get ready because Isaac is going to be here for training soon.”

Laura stands and shuts off the TV almost violently, stomping over to where her paint things are strewn on the floor.  “M'not going to train.”

“The hell you aren't,” Stiles says, trailing after her.

She stops and crosses her thin arms and glares.  “I don't turn into a wolf so I don't have to train.”

“Yeah, I can see that you're well on your way to transformation into part of the couch!”

“Shut up!” she shouts.

“Do as you’re told!”

“Make me!”

Stiles would never lay a hand on Laura, not really, but he twitches and steps back, throwing his hands into his hair.  “You’re infuriating,” he mutters.  “Go pick up your things.  Now.  We’ll talk about training later.”

She rolls her eyes, stomping towards her paints, and says, “No, we won’t.”

“Laura, I swear to God—”

The front door opens and both Stiles and Laura snap their heads over to look at Lydia, balancing bags in her arms.  “Jackson's mother has signed us up for that god awful fruit of the month club. Crates, Stiles, crates and crates of guavas. Do you know how disgusting the smell of guavas is? Well now you will.”  She kicks the door shut behind her and clomps past them in her high heels, setting down her bags on the kitchen counter, and Stiles spares one last glance at Laura before he follows Lydia, anxiety leaking out of every pore.

“Lydia,” he says dryly, “you’re early.”

“I figured you could use the company,” she mutters.  “Jess is at her grandmother’s, Isaac and Scott are training with Laura today—you and I can have cocktails and sit out on the porch and bitch like the good old days.”

“College.”  Stiles smirks.  “Guava cocktails?”

“Oh, no, these are just because I could not stand them in the house anymore.  Feed them to Laura, make them into juice, I don’t care.”  She drops her purse on a chair and slips out of her shoes.  “Want some help with the dishes?”

Stiles nearly moans.  “Yes.  God, yes.”

Whatever Laura's protests she stomps down the stairs fifteen minutes later in her training clothes and her tortoise under her arms. She doesn't look guilty but she doesn't look angry either.  “I'll feed the guavas to Beta, Aunt Lydia.”

Lydia combs her hand through Laura's hair and pulls a hair tie out of absolutely nowhere, tying it up in a high ponytail.  “That's a great idea, sweetheart.”

She nods and then glances at Stiles.  “I’m going to warm up.”

He nods back at her.  “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad,” she mutters as she runs out the door.

Stiles bangs his head full force against the granite counter.  “I'm fucking her up.”

Lydia lays a hand on his back and rubs at his shoulders.  “It’s okay, Stiles,” she sighs.  “Everyone thinks that.  Jackson nearly had a full blown panic attack when he realized we were going to have a daughter.”

“It’s different, though.  You have each other to feed off of.  Jess is only ever mad at one of you at a time.  One of you gets to be the good guy at some point.”  He stands up straight for only a second before he shoves himself into a chair.  “I can’t do this.”

“You can.  If anyone can, it’s you.”

“Not anymore.”

“Stiles.”  She hooks her chin over his shoulder.  “What would he tell you right now?”

“He would laugh at me,” Stiles mutters, fingers tapping at the countertop.

She kisses the top of your head.  “Look, she's almost eight.  It's her job to make your life hell. But she loves you, you're her whole world. You just have to have patience.”

“I'm trying,” he almost whimpers.  “I'm trying but I feel like everything I say is wrong, that he would know the right thing to do in every situation and I don't. If I were the one that died—”

“Stiles, don't think like that—”

“But if I had, I'd know that Derek would take care of her and that she would feel safe enough to—Lydia, she doesn't even talk about him. Ever. And sometimes I think maybe it's that she doesn't remember him so well but I know she does.”

“It takes time.  I know you’ve talked to your dad about this—it’s not easy, trying to raise a child and mourn a spouse at the same time.”

“He’s gone,” Stiles spits, “and we all know that, but it’s not that anymore.  Now it’s the fact that he was a part of her life, a huge part, and it’s been so long—I just expected a change, I guess.”

Lydia runs her fingers through his hair and he knows that it's a gesture the entire pack finds soothing. He relaxes into it and almost feels like he'll pass out.

She whispers in his ear, “When's the last time you slept properly?”

Maybe it's because he's so tired, not just today but in general, so tired of being strong that he just answers plainly from his heart. “When Derek was alive.”

Lydia pets his hair and pulls him to the couch, lets him collapse against her and cry, just a little bit, because it hurts.  Stiles had had a long conversation with his father when Derek had been gone for long enough that it was only proper for them to assume he was dead.  He made Stiles promise not to drink, not to be restless, not to be too afraid or ashamed to ask for help, and Stiles understands—he understands the guilt his dad felt but it doesn’t matter now because he can’t do anything but wallow and he wishes he were better.  He wishes he knew how to help Laura, how to help his family, but he can’t.  So he cries and lets Lydia hold him.

He's not a total mess but he doesn't see that. It's hard to see everything he does right through the haze of missing Derek. But the fact is his pack is not only safe but strong and very much _his_. They don't know why but no one inherited Derek's Alpha eyes, not even Isaac, his first turned. Still no one would have doubted Stiles' claim and it's natural, the way they follow his command, submit, protect him.

All Stiles can see is the way Laura could be happier, could always be just even a little bit happier because he isn't enough.

* * *

 

 

Derek wakes up to the sound of voices.  It’s not unusual, hardly anything to pay much attention to, but it’s what he hears this time that makes him perk up.

“—Argent or Stilinski first?”

“Stilinski would kill us if we went to Argent first.  This is his mate.”

Another voice, the one belonging to the youngest hunter, adds in, “And anything Stilinski doesn’t like, Argent doesn’t either.  She would want us to bring him to Stilinski.”

“And we’re just supposed to hand him over?” the first voice demands.  He’s the oldest gentlemen, the first one to attack him in the room with the Djinn.  “He’s a wolf.”

“He could be a demon,” one of the voices argues, “it wouldn't matter. He belongs to Little Red.”

“Still, I don't think Stilinski would appreciate us showing up at his place and I'm not about to disarm for that pack,” another voice counters.

“Look, I'll call Argent and they can set it, how does that sound.”

Derek pushes his muzzle under his paws and lets his body relax.  His wolf is eager to be home, to curl up with Stiles and their daughter, to be with his mate and his pup, but Derek can’t ignore the feeling in him that says it’s been too long.

“Argent will demand speed,” a man huffs.  “It’s better we take our time, wait until we’re closer to tell her.  That way, she has less of a chance to grab us by the balls.”

“You’d like her to do that, wouldn’t you?” someone teases.  A chorus of laughs echo around the van.

“Well, since she’s fucking a wolf anyway, I assume she has low standards.”

Derek snarls, standing in the cage and shaking it menacingly.  _Shut up about my pack_ , he wants to say, but his teeth are sharp and he’s drooling, so when someone looks over their shoulder to glance at him, he figures the message gets across.

One of the men scoffs.  “Right, right, can't offend the lady's honor. She's on good terms with this one.”

“Wonder if that’s true, you know.  I thought this was a buried lead.”

“It was,” one of the men says nodding.  “Wasn't exactly active a year after the fact, you know? But I recognized him.”

Derek freezes.  A year.  A whole year?  It hasn’t been—it can’t be—how?  It had felt like months in that dream world, at least 10, but he didn’t think that it would be directly correlated.  He didn’t think time would move the same—he can’t have been gone a year.

He paws at the cage, whining, and the men ignore him.

“Mates are weird,” the young one says.  “Even after so long, Stilinski might still take him back.”

He whines as quietly as he can and waits but they don't talk about him anymore, he can hear them talking about other kills about other families, about their own families. He falls asleep because he can't help it but he doesn't dream.

* * *

 

 

Stiles will not be defeated by an elementary school science project. He takes pride in his ability to teach children and he will not be bested by a cardboard presentation on the solar system with a special dedication to Pluto.

Laura sighs and plops down next to him.  “Can we take a break?”

“Yes,” he answers kissing the top of her head, “that's a great idea, let's do that. Do you want cake?”

She nods and Stiles stands, taking the platter out of the cabinet and serving up two generous slices.  When he’s pouring milk, Laura comes padding into the kitchen, her hair tied up like Lydia taught her.  She sits at the counter and spreads her fingers out, looking at them.

“Here, angel,” Stiles says, setting down her plate and glass and offering her a fork.

They sit next to each other and eat in silence for a long moment before Laura says, “Are you gonna marry Auntie Lydia?”

Stiles nearly spits his milk across the room.  “What?  No, Laura, of course not—why would you—no.”

“Sasha and Jeremy got married yesterday on the playground,” she continues, “because they’re best friends.  And you and Auntie Lydia are best friends, so I just thought.  Would Jess be my sister?”

“I’m not going to marry Lydia.”  He grabs her chair and pulls her closer.  “I’m not going to marry anyone.”

Laura nods after a moment’s hesitation.  “Okay,” she says.  “Can I have more milk?”

“What’s the magic word?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Dad.”

“Laura.”

“Can I have more milk _please_?”

He kisses her temple.  “Of course.”

They sit in silence.  Again. There's a lot of that sometimes. Laura looks up at him again and pokes his elbow.  “Why won't you marry anyone?”

Stiles focuses on his cake and wonders how wrong it would be to ignore her. 

“Cause Auntie Lydia and Uncle Jackson are married right? So you can't marry her. And so are Uncle Scottie and Aunt Ally. But why can't you marry someone else? Like Danny! I like Danny.”

Stiles smirks.  “Danny has a fiancé, Laura.  He’s going to get married.”

“Oh.”  She sips more of her milk.  “Well you can marry someone else, right?”

“I could, but I don’t want to.  I have everyone I need already.”

“You mean me, right?”

“Yes,” he laughs, “I mean you.”

She sighs and eats more cake and God, Stiles hopes that's the end of the conversation. But he knows it won't be. He knows how much he hounded his dad to find someone else. But that was different. So many years had passed and his dad had been in love with Melissa for so many of those. It was different. He's saved from further probing by his phone ringing.

“Yeah?”

There's a nervous shuffle on the other side of the line. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, what's up, Allison?”

“I—could you come over?”

“Is everything okay? Scott? Is it the kids?”

“We're fine, it's just—Dad's here and uh. I think it's best if you come over. Right now.”

He stands up, already going for his car keys, and he frowns.  “Should I drop Laura at my dad’s?”

“Yes,” Allison agrees immediately.  “That—that would be best.”

He helps Laura into her shoes even though she argues she’s too big for help and then hands over her jacket and escorts her out the door, hurrying to the car.

* * *

 

 

Derek is jolted in the cage when the van stops.

“50 miles to Beacon Hills,” the driver says.

Derek growls lowly, turns in place, and plops down again.

“Pump him full of wolfsbane in twenty minutes,” another man orders, “so he can’t attack when we take him to Argent.”

When he comes to he's still caged but he's in a room and it isn't moving. He blinks, tries to see the space around him and he can hear footsteps. The sound startles—not to say scares—him because it's too pitch black to see. Is he really still too weak for his vision to recover? It's only when the pain in his body catches up with him that he remembers the wolfsbane in his system.

He growls, twitching, and throws himself against the cage weakly, trying to get out, trying to escape, but he just falls over again.  He breathes, deep, and feels the burn in his body.  It’s not enough to kill him, just make him weak, and he can feel himself already turning human again.  He’s got his arms and legs again, fangs still present and claws throbbing, and he’s only dully aware of the fact that he’s naked, but that’s the least of his worries.  Because he can smell something vaguely familiar.

It smells like hunter, but not only that.  It smells like pack.  It smells like Scott.

“You're sure you're gonna be alright with him, ma'am?”

“Yes,” Allison's quiet, familiar voice says calmly.  “It'll be alright. Thank you. My father will see that you get everything you need.”

“We don't want any money,” the youngest hunter says.

The gruffer one agrees.  “Just wanted to keep things right between us—show of faith and all that.”

Derek shudders, pushing his face into the padded bottom of the cage.

“You can let him out now,” Chris’ voice says.  “We’ll take him upstairs, get him cleaned up.”

“Thank you for finding him,” Allison tells them, but she doesn’t sound like she means it.

The door closes.  They’re gone.  Derek closes his eyes and curls up tighter and listens and his senses are supremely dulled because he hadn’t even realized he was out of the cage, being wrapped up in a blanket, and now he’s being carried.

It’s obviously Scott.  He can smell Allison and their children on him, smell coffee and bacon and an underlying hint of Stiles, and Derek whimpers as he fades in and out of consciousness.

The next time he comes to, he’s in a bathtub.

“I called him,” Allison is whispering to Scott from outside the bathroom door.  “He’s on his way.”

“He’s not bringing Laura is he?” Scott responds.

Derek nearly breaks the tub as he scrambles to get out of it, because he knows who they’re talking about, but he’s still too weak, and Scott only hurries in to check on him before he’s out like a light, drifting back into darkness.

When he wakes up again he's with Scott at his side and he feels strong enough to keep his wits about him. “Stiles.”

Scott grabs his hand.  “He's here.”  Derek lifts his head and looks around until Scott pushes his shoulder back and makes him lie back down.  “He's in the house—not near enough to scent him. Derek—”

“I need him,” Derek insists, fighting to sit up again.  “I need—where am I?”  He’s warm and dry and in a bed, one that smells like fresh linen and not much else.  He’s still in their house, probably a guest room, and he’s clean shaven.  It’s strange.

“You’re safe.  But I can’t let you see Stiles.  Not yet.”

“Why not?” he nearly spits.

“You’re still weak.  You’ve been mumbling in your sleep and you nearly tore out of my kidneys when I was shaving you.”

Derek huffs out a breath.  “Tell me how long it’s been.”

Scott hesitates.  “You don’t know?”

“Tell.  Me.”

Scott clears his throat. “Just over a year.”

Derek growls and grabs at the man's shirt. “How _long_ , Scott?”

“Thirteen months,” Scott tells him, staring him square in the eye, “and seventeen days.”

He feels his breath halt in his throat.  “Does he know now?” he whispers.  “That I’m here?”

“Allison’s telling him right now, I think.  She—the hunters told her and Chris about the Djinn.  She’s explaining it to him.  That it wasn’t your fault.”

Derek feels a pulse of wolfsbane, still lodged in his blood, pass painfully around his wrists, and he winces.  “How long until the wolfsbane is out of my system?”

“Another hour at the very least.  They weren’t exactly being gentle—any more and they could’ve killed you.”

Derek is patient for about five more minutes before he pulls himself out of the bed. The wolfsbane is still effective and Scott is strong enough to push him back but neither is more powerful than his need, his absolute need to see Stiles before him.

He makes it halfway up the stairs with Scott pulling him back before he can shrug the man off and crawl the rest of the way until he's in a bright living room. Everything looks like a country home out of a catalogue and there are people and his eyes try to focus because he can smell Stiles.

He wants to rush forward and hold him and mark him and have him and never leave his side but his burst of strength is fading and he hears heavy footsteps approaching him.

He looks up, like a penitent up to a saint, to the man that even his unconscious mind had been reaching for. But he can't even utter his name before Stiles takes a step back.  “Get him out of my sight.”

Derek can't breathe suddenly, can't understand the harsh cold in Stiles' eyes or the reluctant understanding in Isaac who is standing just a few feet away. Isaac is the first to speak when silence falls after that.  “But, Stiles—”

Stiles' voice is quiet and calm and hard.  “Did I fucking stutter?”

Scott is already trying to scoop him up again and Derek stares helplessly as Stiles stalks over to Isaac.  “Help your packmate, Isaac.”

“Stiles—”

“Excuse me?”

“It's Der—”

What scares him the most is the way Stiles crowds on the other man barely even raising his voice.  “I know who it is, Isaac Lahey; do you know who I am?”

Isaac takes a breath and bares his throat without hesitation.  “Yes, Alpha.”

“Good,” Stiles all but growls, “now help Scott and get him out of my sight.”

* * *

 

 

When Derek is gone, Stiles turns back towards Allison and her father, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, but he doesn’t look at them, can’t.  All he can do is process the way Derek had come stumbling and storming into the room, Scott hanging off of him like he was trying to hold him back.

He looked older.  Not old, not really, and maybe it was just Stiles’ mind, but there was something worn about Derek, like he’d lost years of his life, and Stiles doesn’t feel sympathy.  He’s angry, because Derek didn’t spend those years with him.

“Fuck,” he says softly, tugging a hand through his hair.  “A fucking Djinn.”

“He would’ve been there until he died of old age.  It was a good thing the hunters found him.”

“There was no other way to leave?” Stiles demands to know.

Allison hesitates.  “Stiles, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Don't you fucking defend him now.”

“But it wasn't!”

“I don't care,” he snaps.  “I don't fucking care, it doesn't make it better. It doesn't make the pain and the uncertainty any less, it doesn't make any of you feel safe that you won't have him again, and it doesn't make my daughter whole again. So I don't frigging care why the hell he wasn't here, Allison, I care that he wasn't.”

Allison narrows her eyes.  “You’re being unreasonable.”

“How am I supposed to take him back into my house?  Into my life?  How am I supposed to tell Laura that her father isn’t actually dead?  Tell me that.”  Chris clears his throat and Stiles turns his eyes on him.  “What?” he demands.

“Derek can stay here for the night,” he says, “if that’s what you would prefer.”

“And the other option is?”

“Stiles,” Allison mutters, “no one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.  But Derek is back.  Your mate is back.  And if you think you’re really going to turn him away because of irrational anger, you’re losing brain cells.”

Stiles manages to glare at her with every burning ember of rage in him before his shoulders start to shake. Allison gathers him up in her arms and he lets his body loose, lets it shake violently with sobs and clings to her.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, holding him.  “It’s okay, Stiles.”

“I kept fucking praying and wishing—that he would just come back, that he could just not be dead, and just when I gave up—Derek fucking Hale has terrible timing.”  He squeezes Allison tighter.  “Tell me what to do.”

“Go to him,” she says, “and hold him tight and take him home. And tomorrow you can think of how angry you are and you can deal with Laura and the rest of the pack. But for now just—have him back.”

“My daughter—”

“Will be happier that her father is back than she would be if he never returned,” Chris tells him.

“She’s traumatized,” Stiles says.  “He’s been gone for a year, Chris—there’s nothing Derek can do to fix that.”

“Better than not trying at all.”

He goes back downstairs with both of them, head high and mouth set, but he feel himself waver when he sees Derek sitting on the ground in the front room, head in his hands, knees pulling up.

“He’s sick,” Isaac says.  “His body recognizes adrenaline and it’s trying to get rid of the wolfsbane as fast as possible.”  He gestures to black veins pulsing up his forearms.  “Make him stronger again.”

Stiles’ stomach twists.  “I’ll take him home with me,” he says, and the words are out before he’s even made that decision.  He doesn’t really have another choice.  Derek is his mate—he’s going to come home.

He doesn't touch him, doesn't think he could right now, but Scott helps him to the Jeep and no one says anything. He drives in silence until he's almost to the house and he can't even fit it in his brain, Derek's presence next to him.

Derek manages to get himself inside the house and Isaac, who rode in the back, helps him upstairs while Stiles sits in the kitchen and calls his father.

“Can you keep Laura there tonight?” he asks on an exhale.

“Of course,” the Sheriff says.  “Is everything alright?”

Stiles looks up the stairs to where Isaac is waiting outside the bathroom for Derek to finish puking.  “That remains to be seen.”  He breathes out, “It's all safe, okay? Just keep her there. Tell her she doesn't have to worry about her science project; I'll talk to her teacher in the morning.”

His father agrees and Stiles sits up when Isaac reaches the landing.  “I tried to put him in bed but he's sitting on your bedroom floor.”

Stiles swallows tightly.  “Thanks.”

Isaac doesn’t move, though, just stands there with his hands twisting together.  “When he was drifting in and out after he got to Allison’s place, he was…talking.  At first it was nonsense but after the hunters told us about the Djinn—he was describing the dream, Stiles.”

“Isaac, please—”

“He stayed because he thought he was home.  He thought he was safe—with you.”

Stiles blinks down at the ground, phone still clutched in his hands.  “Go home, Isaac,” he says.

It takes him nearly half an hour to work up the nerve to climb the stairs. Derek is on his knees nearly passed out but quite a few feet away from the bed.

“Cut the martyrdom, Derek,” he huffs.  “You're a wreck, go on the bed.”

Derek looks up at him, like he’s shocked Stiles is speaking to him, and Stiles swallows tightly.

“Just.”  He steps back towards the door.  “Just sleep, okay?  I have to drop by my dad’s, bring clothes for Laura—”  It’s a lie.  He doesn’t have to go anywhere.  Melissa has a little suitcase full of Laura-sized clothes at the house just in case of emergencies, but he also doesn’t want to stay, doesn’t know if he can, and it makes him feel guilty but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Stay,” Derek says.  “I—please, stay.”

Stiles can't move forwards or backwards but his hand sways forward and Derek catches it. He clings to it and both his own hands are clammy and cold but he clings tightly to Stiles.

“Please stay with me.”

Stiles feels like he’s going to break.  “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in a near whisper.

“Can I—please—I want to hold you.”  He grabs for Stiles and it’s awful, the way that this man’s hands feel foreign on his body.  On some level, Stiles is aware that they’re familiar, that they’ve touched him before, many times, but it doesn’t feel right.  They’re not Derek’s warm, strong hands, and Stiles shies away from them, easing Derek up on the bed.

“It’s okay,” Stiles mutters, eyes downcast.  “You need sleep, Derek.”

“I need _you_.”

“I’m right here.”

“No you're not,” Derek whispers.  “It's different, I know you're in front of me, I know it's you. You're more alive than anyone, Stiles, do you know that? There's something that buzzes under your skin like a current all the time and you're real right now, I know that, but I need you here.” He takes Stiles' hand and pulls it and the rest of him closer to his chest.

Stiles feels like crying.  “Derek—”

“Can you—can you do something?  Something with your magic?  Anything?”  He sounds desperate, like it’s the only thing that will calm him, and so Stiles lays his palms on Derek’s stomach and lets his magic warm his entire body, the comfort transferring into Derek’s skin and adding a nicer flush, a healthier glow.

Derek’s breathing deepens.  “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Derek—”

“What color are Laura’s eyes?” he mumbles, pulling Stiles closer.

“I—green.  How could you—did you forget?”

“Never.”

“Derek—”

“The more I’m around you,” he continues, “the more all of that dream feels wrong. Your scent, the way your hands fit in mine, the crinkles next to your eyes.”  Stiles looks down almost embarrassed because okay, not everyone can age like graying Rochesters thank you very much, Derek; but the man lifts his chin and runs his thumb over his mouth.  “How could anything my mind makes up be as perfect as you are?”

Stiles pushes his face into Derek’s neck.  “Derek.”

“I’m never going to leave again, no matter what.  Oh, God, Stiles, I’ll never leave again, ever.”  He squeezes Stiles closer.  “Take me back.  Please, Stiles, take me back.”

He doesn’t know how to tell Derek that he still loves him, that he never stopped, but he tries to convey it in the way he clings to him, nods against his skin and says, “Just stay.”

“I tried to come home, Stiles,” he chokes out. “I swear.”

“I know,” Stiles whispers against his neck, “but you didn't.”

“I—I was so scared.  Because I had you, I thought I had you, and I needed to stay to take care of you and Laura and our son—”  He shudders, sobbing, and Stiles holds onto him tighter.

“We—we had a son?”

“Your mom was alive,” he continues, “and my family.  And those things were good but other things—other things weren’t.  I tried so hard, Stiles, I wanted to come back to you; I just didn’t know how.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles tells him, scrambling to close any space they have left between them.  “I promise, it’s okay; I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere and neither of you; don’t you dare leave me again, Derek, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Derek kisses him then, and it makes Stiles’ heart shatter in his chest all over again because he hasn’t been kissed in over a year, hasn’t been in Derek’s arms, hasn’t really felt him, and Stiles moans into it, pulling Derek atop him.

“You’re here,” Stiles breathes as he yanks off Derek’s shirt—one borrowed from Chris Argent—and starts and shove down Derek’s sweats with his feet.  “You’re not leaving me again.  I won’t let you.”

“We don’t—Stiles—”

“Tell me you love me,” Stiles insists, grabbing Derek’s face.  “Tell me you love me and I’ll never let you leave again.”

“I love you,” he growls into his ear, and he repeats it over and over against Stiles’ jaw and his throat.

Stiles feels his shoulders shaking but he doesn't stop, doesn't stop running his hands over Derek's healing body or pressing his lips against the warming skin.

“Should we be doing this?” Stiles says, halfway to hysterics, Derek naked but for his sweats shoved down just above his knees, his own body fully dressed.  “Are you still—how do you feel?”

“I feel like I want to be inside you,” Derek growls.  “Right now.”

Stiles’ head tips back.  “Okay,” he soothes, “yes.”

Derek is attentive and eager but his eyes are still watery and he helps Stiles undress with careful hands that are intent on mapping every inch of him.  “I remember your body,” Derek whispers.  “I remembered it even in the dream but details—God, Stiles.”  He pushes his face against Stiles’ throat.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize right now,” Stiles tells him.  “Just—”  He kisses Derek then, again, slow and measured, and when Derek reaches for the side table, Stiles shakes his head.  “No, I—I have some in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t—I haven’t—and you weren’t coming back—I—”  He swallows tightly and shoves himself out of bed to retrieve it from the bathroom.

He’d bought the lube a little over two months ago, hot shame and frustration pitting in his stomach.  He avoided getting off, wasn’t that difficult with a seven-year-old running around the house, but he was still young and prone to bodily functions that plagued other men, and so he had the lube around, but he’d only ever used it twice, got off like it was a chore, and now he clutches Derek’s shoulders and hides his face.

Derek soothes the back of his neck and takes the lube out of his hands.  “Did you…?”

Stiles bites at Derek’s neck.  “Need you every night?  Feel like I was going to die without you ever touching me again?  Yes.”

“I’m never going to stop touching you,” Derek promises.  “I promise I’m never going to stop.”

His hands are perfect, and Stiles knows he’s going to come like a teenager.  All the same, Derek pushes his fingers in Stiles like they’ve never stopped, like he’s been on vacation or something and they’re just getting right back to it, and Stiles chokes into open air, lifting his hips.

“I’m going to be so good for you, Stiles.”  His voice is meager, almost timid, like an omega to an Alpha, and Stiles digs his hands into Derek’s hair.  “I’ll be anything you want.”

“Just be here,” Stiles breathes out.  “Please, I need you—I need to know you’re really here.”

Derek nods, moves his fingers inside of Stiles and feels him writhe.  “I’m here,” he whispers.  “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, I promise.  I’m right here.”

Stiles feels like he could float away.  His bed feels right again, with Derek in it, and he lets it comfort him as Derek holds him, as Derek kisses every inch of him and stretches him and—

“What’s this?” Derek asks then, voice quiet, fingers halting.  His mouth is hovering over the place it had just rested, a series of small scars on Stiles’ lower abdomen.  Stiles can see how worry is ignited in his eyes immediately, strange ideas about threats and wounds, and Stiles grins, flopping back against the pillow again and laughing delightedly.

Derek crawls up his body, frowning.  “Stiles?”

Stiles is still hysterical, clutching Derek’s elbows and letting his body shake with laughter.  It isn’t until that laughter makes heat stir in his belly because of Derek’s fingers still positioned properly inside of him that he realizes Derek is still waiting for an answer.

“I had appendicitis,” he chuckles.  “Believe it or not, Scott actually sniffed it out.  It, uh, almost burst, but I was okay.  Laura was really scared but we were—we were okay.”

Derek blinks.  “You had your appendix removed.”

“Minor surgery; I was fine.”

“I missed it.  I wasn’t—I wasn’t here.”

“Derek, it's nothing—”

“I missed so much.”

Stiles can't tell him it isn't true, he doesn't even want to begin to delve into what Derek being gone has meant for Laura, so he cups his cheek and kisses him and moves his hips to urge him on.  “I missed you, every inch of me missed you.”

Derek kisses him, deep and sweet, and nods.  “Okay,” he says.

He almost wonders if Derek is going to ask him for a condom.  When they manage actual full penetration—which is painstaking and sometimes not worth it with a kid around—they usually use one to help with the mess, but Derek doesn’t.  He just positions Stiles’ hips and starts to push inside of him in one slow move.

Stiles’ mouth falls open just as his eyes slip closed.  “Missed you.  Missed this.  Missed everything.”  His legs wrap around Derek’s hips and he nudges Derek with his heels like he’s a horse.  “C’mon.  Fuck me like you mean it.”

Derek bites at his earlobe and growls like Stiles is a misbehaved pup. There's something there, something of the old them. It breaks Stiles to twist them into a before and after but he remembers, sometimes Stiles took control but often Derek just needed to feel how much Stiles needed him.

Derek fucks him in a juxtaposition perfectly built for them.  His eyes are all love and devotion and grace, and his body is hard and eager, fucking into Stiles like it’s all he wants, like using Stiles’ body to bring himself pleasure, to give Stiles pleasure, is the only thing in the world to him, and it feels perfect.  Because he can see Derek’s face thanking him, see Derek telling him how he loves him, how he’s so grateful to be home again, but he can _feel_ the way Derek needs him, feel the way Derek needs _Stiles_ to need him, and they fall apart like that, clinging to each other.

“It’s okay,” Derek pants into his neck when Stiles grabs at the base of his dick and cries out.  “It’s okay, come for me.”

So Stiles gives in and claws at Derek's back leaving scratches that won't last and he breathes out a broken sob into Derek's mouth with his eyes wide open. 

* * *

 

Derek follows two thrusts later, spilling into Stiles, and he doesn’t pull out, not right away.  He lays there, rolls onto his side and pulls Stiles with him, and Stiles nuzzles him.

“That was fucking perfect,” Stiles tells him.

Derek is busy marking bites into Stiles' shoulder, a sudden possessiveness overtaking him. “You didn't smell like me anymore.”

Stiles closes his eyes and bites at Derek's shoulder himself.  “And did I smell like someone else?”

Derek smirks to himself.  “Laura.  And Lydia.”  He’s reminded instantly of the other world, the one where he was built to be jealous of Lydia, and he’s glad to be rid of it.  “I would know.  If there was someone else, I would know.”

“There was never anyone else.”

“There could’ve been—should’ve been.  I was gone for a long time.”

“You were gone for a year,” Stiles says brokenly, but just as quickly his voice turns teasing and light.  “Proper ladies mourn for seven.”

Derek growls and digs his fingers into Stiles' side.

The man jolts and chokes out a laugh.  “I wasn't even out of full mourning, sir, how dare you lure me into your sheets.”

Derek manages a genuine smile at the idea of Stiles being a southern belle, but the picture is destroyed a moment later when Stiles crawls on top of him.  “Sorry,” Derek murmurs, taking in his face, his nose, his lips, his moles.  “You were impossible to resist.”

“I suppose I’ll forgive you.”  Stiles leans over him to grab his shirt.  It ended up over the headboard.  He uses it to clean his chest and stomach off, then tosses it towards the hamper.  “Fuck mourning.”

Derek smirks.  “Was that what we just did or a statement?”

Stiles doesn't answer but instead burrows into Derek's body, enjoying the warmth. He trails his fingers over Derek's side down to his thigh and back up slowly tracing the lines of him. He mouths sluggishly at his chest just to gather the taste of him on his lips again.

“Do you want a son?” Stiles asks after a moment.  “I mean, you said, with the Djinn—”

“I don’t think so.  I—I feel good.  With what we have.  And—”  _And a child isn’t scotch tape_.  He shrugs.  “It was nice, in the moment, but I don’t want anything more than what I have right now.”

“Good,” Stiles says, half sigh, half laugh. “I mean. What I mean is…  Laura needs you.”

“I want to see her,” Derek says quickly.

“Derek, she…  I honestly don't know what she'll do.”

“Neither do I.”  Derek kisses his shoulder.  “I want to see her, though.  I want to be able to…talk to her.  I need to know what she wants.”

“You’re not leaving, no matter what she says.  She’ll be mad for a while—but nothing compared to what life would be like if you showed up only to leave again.”

“No, of course I wouldn’t leave again.  Of course.”

“To be fair no one thought the day would come you would leave at all,” Stiles whispers.

“Stiles—”

“It was the right thing to do,” he says quietly.  “It isn't your fault.”

Derek knows that, but it doesn’t make him feel any less guilty.  “She’s staying with your dad?”

“Yeah.  Oh, hey, that’s another thing.”  Stiles snorts as he rolls off of Derek and starts towards the bathroom, wobbling awkwardly.  “Dad proposed.”

Derek sits up in bed, eyebrows tall.  “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, they’ve been living together for like five years, and he proposed—Melissa slapped him.”  The shower turns on and Derek listens as Stiles hisses at the chill.  Stiles peeks his head out the door.  “Hey, you joining me?”

“Did they—I mean, I didn’t miss the wedding, did I?”

“No.  They’re doing a little thing.  I kind of volunteered the house, actually, because they wanted to keep it small.  They’re doing it in the backyard.  In, uh, about a month.”  He sticks out his hand.  “C’mon.”

Derek joins him in the shower, presses him up against the tiles and gets him off again sometime later, and when they get out, they’re warm and wrinkled.

“Do you remember when I graduated and bought the apartment and you were all secretly mad that I did since you thought I was going to move in with you?” Stiles asks while they trod downstairs.  Derek does remember, of course, and frowns.

“I wasn’t mad.”

“Ha!  Were too.”  Stiles is dressed in nothing but boxer briefs and a T-shirt, Derek in something similar, and he smirks to himself slightly because he thinks he knows what Stiles is going to say.  “I came over here and we had sex in your bed and came downstairs in our underwear and ordered pizza and you went on and on for minutes about how it could be like that every night if we lived together and I knew you were so jealous.”

Derek rolls his eyes, reaches for the phone.  “Would you like to order pizza?”

“You read my mind.”

Derek takes his time to watch Stiles, sit back and just observe, and he notices that Stiles really is older.  A year really does make all the difference and—and in Stiles, it’s even more obvious.  He’s lost weight in his stomach but gained some in his arms, muscle, and he wonders if he’s been doing more training exercises with the pack as their Alpha.  His hair is shorter than it had been the last time Derek saw it, not buzz cut short but almost too short for Derek to run his fingers through.  His body is essentially the same, except for the scars, and then there’s—

“No,” Derek says on a fast exhale, a broken noise that he doesn’t even think about.

Stiles pulls his ankle under his opposite thigh.  “Scott said it would be the least painful place to get one.  I just—I wanted—don’t judge me.”

Derek grabs for Stiles’ foot, yanking it onto his lap, and touches the ink that’s been set permanently just above his outer ankle.  It’s his birthday, six digits with little dots between each pair, and it feels like Derek’s heart just drops into the pit of his stomach.

“We buried you,” Stiles tells him, whispering, “and we’d gotten rid of so much of your stuff when we were waiting for the omegas and I just didn’t have anything good enough but I just wanted this and so.”  He lays his hand over Derek’s and slides his foot away.  “Are you okay?”

Derek nods without really thinking about it.  “Yes,” he says.  “Now that I’m home.”

* * *

 

 

Derek wakes up to an empty bed, but it only takes a second to hear Stiles in the shower.  They’d made love again last night, slower and more careful, taking their time to be able to fully enjoy every little thing they’d missed about each other, and exhaustion had set in shortly after.  Derek smiles as he recalls it, rolls his eyes as Stiles sings under the spray, and gets up, pulls on underwear, and goes downstairs to make coffee.

The kitchen is different, things reorganized and purchased, one of those being a new coffee machine.  It’s red and tall, fancy-looking, and there’s a red light lit on the base, a gurgling noise already coming from it.  Derek isn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that the machine is already making the coffee for him.

Either way, he’s halfway through making a full breakfast for himself and Stiles, focused only on the stove and the small sounds of Stiles turning off the faucet upstairs, when the front door opens.

“Stiles!” the Sheriff’s voice calls.  “Laura’s worried about Beta and you weren’t answering your phone so we decided to drop by.”

Derek stands frozen on the other side of the wall that separates the living room and the kitchen, the door wide open and the smell of waffles and eggs and bacon wafting through, he has no doubt.

Then he hears little feet running upstairs.  “Dad, did you feed Beta?  Daaaaaaaaaaaad.”

“Stiles?  Are you—”  The Sheriff starts heading towards the kitchen and Derek is frozen, doesn’t move, can’t move, and he even stands there when the Sheriff stares at him, hand on his gun in the holster.

“I can explain,” Derek says immediately.

The Sheriff closes the door firmly behind him even though there isn't any sort of lock and steps forward.  “Explain.”

“I was unconscious,” Derek says, the first thing that comes to his mind.

“For a year?”

“Yes.”

“There are wolfsbane rounds in this pistol, Hale.”

“I’m not lying—I was trapped and I couldn’t get out and I wanted to.  And eventually I did.”  He’s still holding his hands up.  “I promise.”

“Where’s Stiles?”

“Upstairs.  I—I’m here to stay.”

 The man still has a hand on his gun and weary eyes.  “We'll see about that.”

Little steps run down the stairs.  “Grandpaaaaaaaaaa!”

He half turns, his eyes still on Derek.  “Stay in the living room, Laura.”

The running steps pause.  “Why?”

“Because your dad messed up something and hid it in the kitchen.”

“Did he mess up bad?”

The Sheriff actually smirks and it's incredibly intimidating for a man his age.  “It's a mess alright.”

Derek swallows tightly and moves back to turn off the stove, and he feels sick with shame when he hears hurried steps down the stairs and Stiles’ voice joining it as he runs.

“Dad,” he says nearly breathlessly, “what a nice surprise—um, sweetheart, Beta is in the den, why don’t you go in and grab him and I’ll get you some lettuce from the kitchen?”

“I wanna get it,” Laura tells him, “but Grandpa says you made a mess.  I don’t have to clean, right?”

There’s silence as Stiles and his father exchange a look and Derek really wishes he were wearing more clothes for this.

“I'll clean it up, just go get Beta, okay?”

Derek can hear the impatient little huff. “Yes, Daddy.”

“You wanna explain yourself?”

“Dad, I'm still wrapping my head around it, I need a minute to—”

“Well your minute is up because you have a kid, Stiles, that's how it works now.”  He crosses his arms over his chest.  “Are you letting him stay?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Stiles wants to know.  “I want him here.  Laura needs him back.”

“Laura will pitch the biggest fit you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“You don’t know—”

“She hasn’t said his name in months, Stiles,” he hisses.  “She wouldn’t spend time with the wolves, she wouldn’t call her tortoise Beta because it reminded her of Derek, she stopped speaking for a number of _weeks_.”  He glares at Derek, but it’s clear he’s still speaking to his son.  “If you think this is going to be easy, you’re in for a world of hurt.”

“I didn't think it'd be easy,” Stiles says quietly.

“I'm sure you hoped so,” his dad says, “but it's going to be hell. I'm taking Laura one more night. Get your shit together.”

Derek startles. He's seen the man curse before, of course he has, but never directly at anyone. Never straight at Stiles.

The Sheriff goes back towards the living room, waiting for Laura, and Stiles looks down at the ground.  “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Not your fault.  It’s mine.”

“No—it’s, Derek—”  He stands closer, winds his arm around Derek’s naked torso.  “It’s okay.  We’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Go say goodbye to Laura,” he mutters, kissing Stiles.  “Go.”

Derek waits for Stiles to leave the kitchen before crumbling against the wall. The Sheriff is right. How could he think it would be so easy, to just come home and have his life be the way it was? How could he think that there would be no consequences to leaving his family for so long? Whether he intended to or not doesn't actually matter, because his daughter needed him and he wasn't there.

He listens to Stiles say goodbye, waits for the door to close, and then Stiles comes back into the kitchen and throws himself in Derek’s arms.  “Stay.”

“Of course.”

“We just have to figure out how to tell her.  But she’ll want you to stay.  She’ll want you here.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re her dad, Derek.”

“You're saying it for a reason.”

Stiles swallows and pushes himself off Derek.  “We're her parents, even if she's angry—”

“She has every right to be,” Derek reasons.  “It doesn't matter why I left and why I didn't come back.  It matters that I left her.”

“You didn’t have another choice!” Stiles insists.  “Stop thinking like that.  We can’t keep walking backwards if we’re gonna try to figure it out, okay?”  He grabs at Derek’s hands and Derek pushes his face into Stiles’ throat.  “Let’s just eat and go back to bed, okay?  Focus on me.”

Derek exhales slowly through his nose.  “We were married,” he says.  “In the dream, with the Djinn, we were married.  Legally.”

“That doesn't matter,” Stiles says airily.  “That's never mattered.”

“You were happy. Before I started noticing things that were wrong, you were happy,” Derek whispers.

“It was a dream.”  He grabs at Derek’s face and pulls him back.  “Derek, it was a dream.  I’m happy with you.  Can we—can you take me back to bed, please?  Let me hold you?”

He nods weakly.  “Yes.  We can—yes.”

* * *

 

 

Stiles has to go out the next morning and take Laura from the car. His father doesn't try to stop him, but he also takes his time unlocking the doors to the cruiser.

Once he does get Laura, keeping her in his arms instead of setting her down so that she runs into the house, his father gives him a disapproving look through the windshield and Stiles tries not to glare back.

He sets her and Beta down in the den, and Laura sits in front of the tortoise.  “Beta doesn’t like Grandpa’s house, I think,” she says with a shrug.  “He doesn’t have enough vegetables.”

Stiles smirks, but it’s missing a lot of its umph.  “Laura, I, uh, wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” she says, looking up at him.  “Am I in trouble?”

“No, sweetie, it’s nothing like that, it’s just something that we should discuss.  It’s an adjustment.”

She frowns.  “Are we moving?  Monica’s family moved last year.  I don’t want to move, Dad, I like my friends.”

“No, baby, we're not moving. This is our land. Do you remember why that's important?”

Laura blows a stray hair from her face and gives a big dramatic sigh.  “Because we're not just a family, we're a pack.”

Stiles nods.  “Yeah, that’s right.”  He licks his lips and scoots closer.  “Laura, we need to talk about your father,” he says then, and he can see the way she looks away, back towards Beta, like she’d rather be in a shell right now.

“You’re my father,” she responds.

“Laura.”

“I’m a Stilinski.  Remember?”

“Of course I do, but you're also his daughter.”

Laura looks down at her hands.  “Uh huh, so?”

“Do you miss him?”

She shakes her head but doesn't look up.

“Because it's alright if you do, Laura.”

“I don't,” she says simply, staring at her hands like they'll turn into little birds.

“Do you ever want him back?” he continues.  “Because I do.”

Laura doesn’t answer.

“I don’t know if you can remember everything, what it was like.  You loved him, didn’t you?  He was a good dad.”

“You’re my dad,” she says again, emphatic.  “ _You’re_ my dad.”

“He was your Alpha,” he says softly.

“I'm not a wolf,” she snaps.  “I'm a girl; I'm a normal girl and you're my dad.”

She sits up on her knees and Stiles lays his hands on her shoulders.  “Listen to me—”

But he stops when he sees the way her lip trembles.  “Don't you want to be my dad either?”

His eyes widen and he scoops her into his arms, holding her close.  “Oh, sweetheart, of course I want to be your dad, I love being your dad.  I love you more than anything in the world.”

“Don’t leave me, Daddy,” she says into his shoulder, and he holds her tighter.

“Angel, I’ll never leave.”

She's not crying but she's shaking a bit and at first he thinks her little gasp might be a sob except her hand fists up his shirt and she's frozen stiff. He hears her whisper “Daddy”, and for the first time in so long he isn't sure who she's talking to.

He doesn’t let her go, but he shifts, turns so he can see Derek where he’s standing in the doorway, and Laura isn’t moving, just staring at him.  Stiles looks between them, back and forth, but they don’t look away from each other.

“Hi, Laura,” Derek says softly.  “I—I missed you.”

She moves away from Stiles and steps back almost as if she’s trying to back out of the room, but her only exit is blocked by Derek and so she stands against the wall. Her eyes are wide and Stiles can't decipher the emotion in them, but when Derek takes a step closer, she screams.

Stiles immediately grabs for her again, holding her, and she kicks and screams at him, eyes closed, and it takes forever to make her quiet enough to actually listen to him but that doesn’t stop him from talking.  He holds her still and tells her, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Laura, he’s back—he came back because he loves you—he fought to get back to us.”

She continues to scream and kick and Stiles has to wonder if she thinks she’s seeing a ghost.

He's afraid , at least a little bit, that she might bite him—but she manages to squirm away and run right past Derek's legs and out the door. They're both running after her but she's still screaming, no words but a full on tantrum as she runs down the porch steps and in a straight line through the thicket of trees. It's Derek who manages to catch her just a few yards from the main road at which point she turns to scream directly at his face while she kicks at him with everything she's got.

Stiles thinks she’ll tire herself out eventually, but he doesn’t know that it’ll be any time soon.  Derek takes the beating well, like an Alpha, and Laura just kicks and punches and screams.  Stiles feels powerless, can’t do anything but stand on the sidelines and hold his hands over his ears, kneel next to Derek and try to touch Laura, try to calm her.

She doesn’t care.

It feels like hours before she manages to squirm away from him and run back towards the house.  This time, since she’s not as hysterical, they catch up to her quickly and see her carrying Beta up to her room.

Stiles makes to grab her but Derek puts a hand firmly on his chest and shakes his head. Laura holds Beta against her chest and stomps into her room, kicking the door shut behind her.

“Stiles,” he says calmly, “will you leave us alone for a bit?”

“What,” Stiles almost laughs hysterically.  “You and her door?”

Derek looks at him and leans in, kissing his temple.  “It’s okay.  Just…go sit down in the living room or something, okay?”

He nearly huffs, half frantic and half offended, but he does go, and he plops himself down in a kitchen chair with a mug full of ice cream because he deserves it.

* * *

 

 

Derek feels heavy.  He feels like Atlas, shoulders burning and hands cramping as he tries to hold up the sky, but he still steps forward and knocks lightly on Laura’s door.

“Laura,” he says through the door.

“Go away!” she shouts desperately.

He runs his fingers over the wood as if he could touch her through it.  “I'm not going to leave again, Laura, I swear.”

She doesn’t answer, but Derek can hear her sniffling quietly, pushing her face against her pillow.  “Why did you leave?” she demands to know.  “You said you loved us.”

“I do—I love you so much, Laura.”

“You lied,” she insists.

“No, baby, I wouldn’t lie.”

“You did,” she says through a sniffle.  “You said I—you said you—”

He can hear her crying quietly and he feels like pawing at the door.  “I never lied, Laura, never. I love you more than anything, anything in the world. My pup.”

“Don't call me that!”

He presses his forehead against the door.  “Laura, may I come in please?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to leave, Laura.  I want to stay here, with you and with Dad.  I want to stay and be here with you guys forever.”

Laura is quiet for a moment.  He can hear her stand her, her shoes against the floor, and her nose as he sniffs again and drags her arm across her nostrils.  “Beta missed you,” she says.

Derek nearly laughs.  “I missed Beta too. You know—while I was away I had…a dream. Sometimes it was sweet and I could see you playing with Beta and he always looks so wise, doesn't he, for a tortoise. But I missed you, the real you, cub. I missed the way your eyes look when you smile.”

He can hear her walk over to the door and open it up, twisting the knob.  When she looks up at him, she doesn’t shy away.

“Hi,” he breathes.

She looks so much older, nearly eight years old, obviously grown, longer hair and bigger eyes.  She’s beautiful, and Derek feels pride swell in him at the knowledge that his little girl is growing up so quickly.

“Beta wants to know if you’re going to stay,” she says.

“I am, I'm going to stay,” he whispers, reaching for her hand.

She lets him take it but doesn't grasp back. “You made Daddy cry.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I promise, sweetheart.  I promise.”

“You’re going to stay?”

He nods, drops to his knees and opens his arms.  “I’m going to stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> So the REASON this took forever is because we tried too hard to make it last, to make it long. We got up to about 37k before we realized that the last 27,000 words, while a story, were not the story we needed to tell. So, we took those out and we'll probably use them again somehow to continue Laura's storyline in the future, but for now, this will just have to do :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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